


Brown Paper Packages Tied Up With String

by bowieboosh



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: I love my supernatural idiots, I mean there's an argument, I'm incapable of writing things that don't have happy endings, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Series, Rated T for swearing, Sort Of, briefly angsty?, but don't worry, oblivious idiots, tropetastic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 16:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19397614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowieboosh/pseuds/bowieboosh
Summary: In which Crowley receives an infuriating parcel.





	Brown Paper Packages Tied Up With String

The day after their lunch at the Ritz, a parcel arrived at Crowley’s flat. It was an unassuming thing, or it would have been, had it arrived some fifty or so years ago. As it was, it looked a little out of place. Not in a way that made it look suspect, simply in the way that made it look as though it had been sent by someone who was, in many ways, a little quaint. Crowley ran a hand across the brown paper, turning the label to inspect his address, written in a hand that, even in the kindest possible terms, couldn’t be called neat. At times, he wondered whether actual miracles were involved in Aziraphale’s post not going astray. Tugging at the string, he frowned. He tugged again, the frown deepening into a scowl. The damn bow (because of course he’d tied it into a bow) wouldn’t budge. Muttering something that would have scandalised any human unlucky enough to be within earshot, he stalked off to find a pair of scissors. He had helped avert the apocalypse, for fuck’s sake, he wasn’t going to be bested by a piece of string.

With a far more victorious noise than the situation really warranted, he held the scissors aloft and approached the parcel in a way that would have been menacing, if parcels were able to be menaced. With a grin like a snake closing in on a particularly plump mouse, he set the blades around the string and – 

Well, that wasn’t supposed to happen. 

He lowered his sunglasses, sure that his eyes must have tricked him in some way. But no, there was no trick. The scissors were…bent? With a growl, he seized the parcel from the desk, carrying it through to the kitchen where he put it down with more force than was strictly necessary. He was a demon of Hell, dammit – or, actually, maybe he wasn’t anymore, he wasn’t quite sure how that worked. But either way, he was Anthony J. Crowley, and he was not going to be beaten by a piece of bloody string.

Forty-five minutes later, the parcel sat on the bench, surrounded by every sharp instrument that could be found in Crowley’s kitchen, all of them now bent beyond all usability. And the parcel, the infuriating parcel, looked as pristine as it ever had. All that effort, and it didn’t even have the decency to show a scuff mark. Part of him wanted to summon some Hellfire just to see if that would be enough to get it open, but a larger part of him remembered that he was supposed to be lying low, trying not to attract any unnecessary attention from downstairs. So he only had one option left, even if he didn’t want to take it. Setting off out the door, he glowered at no one in particular as he thought of the indignity of admitting to Aziraphale that he’d been bested by the angel’s little practical joke.

* * *

He was still glowering as he reached the bookshop, albeit with slightly less determined ferocity. Ignoring the ‘closed’ sign, knowing it didn’t apply to him, he barged his way inside, ignoring the infuriatingly bright jingle of the bell above the door. The damned angel (figuratively speaking, of course – the literal damned angel had just entered) was sitting at his desk, hunched over a presumably very valuable book. At the sound of the bell he spoke, his eyes still on the text in front of him.  
‘I’m awfully sorry, but I’m afraid we’re closed, but please do come back -’  
‘Aziraphale.’ The angel looked up, surprised. It was quite rare for Crowley to actually call him by his name, and even rarer for him to do so in such a tone.  
‘Crowley, my dear, I didn’t realise it was you!’ He beamed, but looked Crowley up and down with some nervousness. ‘My dear fellow, are you quite alright?’  
‘Aziraphale. Why have you sent me a parcel tied up with string that’s managed to break every knife I own?’ The series of expressions that crossed Aziraphale’s face was almost comical.  
‘Oh! Oh, you know, I’d rather forgotten I’d sent it.’  
‘Well you did. And I can’t open it.’  
‘It’s nothing to worry about, you needn’t be concerned about getting it open.’ He reached out to take it, but Crowley pulled his arm back, snatching the parcel from Aziraphale’s reach.  
‘If it’s nothing to worry about, why d’you want it back so much?’  
‘I don’t!’ He exclaimed, far too quickly. ‘I just, well, it doesn’t matter now’ Crowley’s eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses.  
‘Aziraphale, what’s in this parcel?’  
‘Nothing! Nothing of importance, anyway. Really, you needn’t worry about it.’ Crowley tried not to get distracted by how flustered Aziraphale was becoming. He was going to get into this parcel, he couldn’t let himself start thinking about…well, he couldn’t let himself be distracted.  
‘You sent it to me, why can’t I know what’s in it? Come to that, why can’t I open it at all?’  
‘It’s nothing! It’s just…’ He trailed off, not looking at Crowley. ‘Look, I can’t open it either, alright?’ And oh, that voice. The voice of a child who’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t, the same voice that had plaintively admitted that he’d given away his flaming sword, the voice that had gone right to Crowley’s heart.  
‘What do you mean, you can’t open it? You sent it, of course you can open it’  
‘No I can’t! I miracled it, I can’t get it open any more than you can’  
‘You ‘miracled’ it?’  
‘Yes, I miracled it! You know, I did a miracle on it!’  
‘Well un-miracle it, then!’  
‘I can’t! That was rather the point, it was only supposed to open in very specific circumstances. Without those circumstances, it won’t open, by knife or miracle or any other means.’ He looked rather dejected. Part of Crowley wanted to give up on the whole thing and comfort the angel, utter fool that he was. But he wanted to know what was in that damnable box, and he wasn’t going to give in.  
‘Circumstances? What circumstances?’  
‘It really doesn’t matter, Crowley’  
‘Aziraphale.’  
The angel sighed, his head falling into his hands. He stayed that way for several minutes, his shoulders slumped, before standing up and declaring, ‘Well, if you insist on us having this conversation, I insist on wine’. 

* * *

Crowley settled into the chair across from Aziraphale’s as two rather generous glasses of wine were poured.  
‘I think you might be being a little dramatic’  
‘Says the demon who bent every knife in his house trying to get into a parcel because he didn’t want to ask for help’  
‘Oh, shut up. Stop…sniping. Just tell me why I, and even more bizarrely, you, can’t get into a parcel that you sent me’  
‘I,’ Aziraphale took a deep breath and an even deeper drink of wine, trying to steel himself. ‘Well, you know the end of the world?’  
‘Yes, I do remember that, oddly enough’ He tried not to smirk at the reprimanding glare.  
‘And that whole business with our respective head offices that followed? Our would-be executions?’ He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. ‘Well, Crowley, can you honestly say that there wasn’t a shred of doubt in your mind, even just the tiniest fear, that our little scheme might not work?’  
‘I don’t see how that’s relevant.’ Crowley had almost started to enjoy the back and forth, but this was getting a bit grim. He took a gulp of wine.  
‘It’s relevant,’ Aziraphale said exasperatedly, gesturing with his glass, ‘because I thought I might die, Crowley’  
‘You did die! You died before the apocalypse, before the Antichrist sorted you out!’  
‘I was discorporated! No, Crowley, you don’t understand, I thought I might actually be destroyed. Actual death, angel-in-hellfire sort of death, not discorporation. That’s why it won’t open, it’ll only open if…well, you get the idea.’  
‘Well why the bloody hell did you do that? What’s the point of sending a parcel that’ll only open if you’re dead?’  
‘It was for you! There were some things I wanted you to know, if it all went to pot. But like I said, it doesn’t matter now!’  
‘Some things you wanted me to…why not just send a letter, you overdramatic git?’  
‘Crowley! And I did, at least, I meant to. Only, there were other letters. And, well, if I was sending you one, I thought, in for a penny and all that, so I sent them all’  
‘All? How many are we talking here?’ Aziraphale muttered something. ‘Didn’t quite catch that, how many?’  
‘A hundred and forty-two!’  
‘A hundred and forty-two? You sent me a hundred and forty-two letters?’  
‘Yes!’  
‘You wrote me a hundred and forty-two letters?’  
‘It’s hardly that remarkable! Really, it’s barely more than two a century.’  
‘Two a – How long has this been going on? Aziraphale, have you seriously been writing letters to me for six thousand years? Letters that you never actually sent me?’  
‘I sent you them eventually!’  
‘In a parcel I can’t open!’  
‘Yes well you’re not supposed to read them while I’m alive!’  
‘Well what’s the point of them, then?’  
‘I just had to write them! And what was I supposed to do, leave them in my shop for someone from upstairs to find?’  
‘Aziraphale, you may not exactly be a stellar angel, but there’s hardly going to be anything so incriminating that it needs to be sent to a demon for safekeeping’  
‘I didn’t send them to a demon! I sent them to you! And they weren’t for safekeeping, you ass, I sent them to you for you to read, just not while I was here!’  
‘What could be so awful that you couldn’t just tell me? You never stop talking, what could possibly be left to say?’  
‘I love you!’ 

Well, he had spat it out, even if he didn’t quite mean to. Aziraphale’s mouth hung open, shocked at what he’d said. Or, rather, the fact that he had actually said it.  
‘Crowley, I-’  
‘You wrote me a hundred and forty- two letters saying that you loved me?’  
‘...Yes.’  
‘Hang on, though, why wouldn’t you want me to read them while you were still around? Why would you only want me to read them after you were dead, where’s the sense in that?’  
‘I thought it would minimise the awkwardness! I didn’t want to lose you as a friend by telling you how I felt, I’d rather have had you dishonestly than lose you honestly. Selfish, I know, but-’  
‘Lose me? What the hell are you talking about, lose me?’  
‘Well obviously when I told you, you’d become uncomfortable, only natural, I’d’ve put you in a rather awkward situation. It would be quite understandable, but still, deeply undesirable. I’m sorry I’ve had you under false pretences, Crowley, but I couldn’t bear to lose you, not again, not after the nineteenth century.’  
‘Aziraphale?’ The angel looked at him, looking for all the world like a child who’d just been told that Santa Clause wasn’t real. Crowley was quite proud of Santa Clause, he’d been one of his. ‘You’re an idiot.’  
‘Excuse me?’  
‘An idiot. An absolute, complete, total idiot.’  
‘Crowley, I know I haven’t been truthful with you, but really, I’m not sure that’s entirely necessary’  
‘Angelic perfection clearly doesn’t cover observation skills, then?’  
‘I’m not sure I follow’  
‘Angel, I’ve been in love with you since you told me that you’d given the humans your flaming sword’  
‘You…oh.’  
‘I’ve been falling more and more in love with you since the day we met, and you didn’t have the common decency to put me out of my misery and tell me you felt the same way’  
‘Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry, I-’  
‘Joking, angel, joking. Give it a few more millennia and I’m sure you’ll pick up some sense of humour from the humans’ The jibe had no real sting to it, the sharp words softened by the affection in Crowley’s voice.  
‘So you…feel the same way?’  
‘Yeah, I think it’s safe to say that I do’  
‘Oh, well that’s,’ Aziraphale smiled, a smile that made Crowley feel warm to his very core. ‘That’s very nice indeed.’

**Author's Note:**

> Look I know I've just written two love confession fics in a row but dammit I'm soft and gay


End file.
